Virgin Camden
by Hans the bold
Summary: A parallel tale to a fine subplot in the episode 'The Enemy Within'. For those of you who are worried about negativity and all, this isn't the type of Hans the bold story you're probably expecting.
1. Part One

It has been said, and not without merit, that I am a fairly harsh critic of 7th Heaven. But the truth is that I make every effort to treat the show fairly, pointing out not only its failings but also its successes (and if one spends much time looking at my posts over at Television Without Pity's 7th Heaven boards at http://www.televisionwithoutpity.com/ one will, I think, see this). So although a number of my 7th Heaven stories have built drama around problems in the show, I am not at all blind to the dramatic opportunities that come up when 7th Heaven gets things right.  
  
As a case in point, I present this little tale, which is a parallel story line to the episode "The Enemy Within", in which at least one subplot of Brenda Hampton's script showed just how good the show can be.  
  
As always, these characters are the property of Brenda Hampton and other Hollywood big shots. I'm just using them because they can be cool.  
  
  
Part One  
* * *  
  
Everyone acts like everything is normal, like nothing ever happened. Maybe that's good. Maybe I should be thankful.  
  
But still, I know better that this. I know that no matter how hard I try to believe it, no matter how hard I try to just fit in and make it all like it was before, it never will be, never again.  
  
I think he knows this too. Even now I wonder what he had to sacrifice, what he felt, what he went through when it happened.  
  
I guess it's a bad idea to be writing this down. If my father finds it I'm dead. No, I mean it. Really dead. I know my dad, and I know my mom, and I know he would kill me and kill her. I know it. But I can't keep this in anymore, and they say that when you write things down it sometimes makes you feel better.  
  
I want to feel better.  
  
At least I don't feel .... All right, at least I'm not dead.  
  
That's something, isn't it?  
  
#  
  
I'm trying to think about when it began, when it all started. I was like everybody else then, just me, with my friends and the way we would sit together and talk, maybe about school or about boys or about the latest clothes or about what everybody else was doing. Yeah, we'd talk about troubles, too, about how we didn't like the way we looked, about how we were too fat, maybe, or our nose wasn't petite and pretty like hers was, about how we just wanted to be liked and to be friends with the popular ones.  
  
It was good, now that I look back at it. So far away from where I am today, from how I feel. But it was good because when I was with my friends, talking about these sorts of things, I wasn't at home.  
  
Please don't get me wrong. I want to love my mom and dad. I really do. Maybe it's because I want to love them so much that I did what I did. But I do love them, even now, maybe especially now, or maybe not. They give me a home, they give me food, they give me a name.  
  
My name. Claire.  
  
Is it mine?  
  
Is anything mine?  
  
I can't think about that.  
  
My dad drinks, you see. I know, this isn't something anybody knows about, except me and my mother. He keeps his drinking well hidden, but he does drink and he drinks a lot and when he drinks he isn't the same anymore. When he drinks it's not like he's my dad anymore, and yeah, usually when he drinks he gets mean. Maybe this is because he hates his job, or because he hates something else.  
  
I remember the first time I saw my mom's face after he hit her. I was little, just a little girl, and I guess I did something to make him mad and then he started screaming at me and then Mom tried to calm him down and he hit her.  
  
I think my dad hates God.  
  
We have Christmas, sure, and Easter. But it's just because everyone else does it that we do. Dad gives me presents, and Mom and I always make sure to give him presents, and if we're lucky he doesn't come home from work with a bottle in his hand and we might have a good time.  
  
But I think he hates God. I heard him say it once, and I know he meant it because it was a time when he wasn't drunk.  
  
Yeah, drunk. I'm supposed to be too young to say it, but I know what the word means. I know it means that they don't love you anymore. I know it means that you are always a disappointment to them, that you aren't smart enough or quiet enough or pretty enough, and you are a disappointment.  
  
I don't want to be a disappointment.  
  
I just want to be his little girl.  
  
#  
  
But, you know, I'm not his little girl. I'll never be. I know where I came from, how I came to be. He, young and stupid, and my mother, also young and stupid, and a single night seventeen years ago. Both too young, neither ready, and then there I was and by God, son, you be a man about this and marry her and raise your daughter. Never mind that you aren't ready, never mind that you say your girlfriend just wanted a baby so she could get a welfare check. You be a man, son. You forget about your dreams and your hopes and you get a dull, miserable job and you be a father.  
  
I know these things.  
  
I know what he calls my mother when he hits her.  
  
Welfare whore.  
  
I know the sight of me reminds him of everything he never got to do, never got to be.  
  
And I know that he will never really love me.  
  
#  
  
Maybe this is why I did it, the first time. Maybe this is why I stopped being just another one of the girls, just Claire who had friends and who did things and who gossiped and who was pretty and sometimes even happy. Maybe this is why I started spending time with the boys.  
  
I'm so dirty. I hate myself sometimes because of what I did with them, what I let them do with me, how I let them touch me even though I never enjoyed it.  
  
I guess I should remember their names, but it doesn't really matter.  
  
I do remember his name, though. For a while there was a joke going around school about him.  
  
Virgin Camden.  
  
I wish I was a virgin.  
  
I didn't know him well back then. We had a class or two together, and I remember thinking that he always looked so sullen, just a little bit angry, wanting to fit in and be something different from what everyone thought he was. The Minister's boy. Preacher-boy. Goodie-goodie.  
  
There were things about his family, too, that we all knew. One of his older sisters had vandalized the high school gym when I was in junior high, and his other older sister was one of the popular girls in my first year in high school. I remember hearing something about how her friend had died in a car wreck. And his older brother was valedictorian and was studying to be a doctor, and worked for a while in the free clinic in town.  
  
His parents, of course, were Reverend and Mrs. Camden. People talked about them, how they were good people, how they represented values, how good they were as parents. I never met them, though, not really. I talked to his mom on the phone once and she seemed nice. But I know it must be hard, to be the son of a preacher. I know that people were always watching Simon Camden, just like they watched his brothers and sisters, because they were the Minister's kids. They were supposed to behave all the time, and I wonder if maybe that was unfair. Maybe that's why he was so sullen.  
  
Maybe that's why he went to that party that time and got stinking drunk. Maybe that's why he tried so hard to make friends with Morris. Maybe that's why once he got pulled over by all those police cars.  
  
Maybe. I don't know. I just know that Virgin Camden wasn't more than an acquaintance in those days.  
  
Because I needed something more than I thought he could give me. 


	2. Part Two

Part Two  
* * *  
  
"I love you."  
  
They all told me that. Every one of them. I love you I love you I love you.  
  
And I believed them, I guess. Part of me knew better but it still felt so good to hear it. I never heard it at home, not from my dad, not even from my mom. And when the boys would say it I would kiss them and then they would touch me and I would touch them and I let them do what they were going to do, because at least they weren't yelling at me or calling me stupid or ugly. They were nice and even though it hurt some the first few times it was better than going home.  
  
"I love you."  
  
Maybe they did. I think maybe they really did, but it wasn't real love, either. It was that kind of love that you need, that makes you want someone, but not because of who they are but because of what they are.  
  
I was a girl, and that was what they wanted, what they needed.  
  
And I was willing. I wanted what they gave me, too.  
  
And then I was late. Real late. I'm not stupid and I knew right away what it was, why it was. I knew what it meant.  
  
#  
  
A long time ago, my dad had made it pretty clear what it meant. It was me, even though he didn't say it outright. And like the times he's said he hates God, he wasn't drunk when he said what he did.  
  
"Goddamn whores. Bringing up their goddamn welfare babies."  
  
I remember he hit my mom that night because dinner was a little bit burned. When I went to my room I tried to cry, but I couldn't.  
  
Welfare whore.  
  
Just like I couldn't cry when I realized I was pregnant.  
  
I thought about going to the boys I had been with, thought about asking for their help. But it's nearly impossible to keep a secret in Glenoak and I knew that if I told anyone that word of it would reach my father. I had to keep it a secret.  
  
Maybe I could get an abortion.  
  
No.  
  
I was a whore. I was what he hated.  
  
I knew, in that way you just know something about someone close to you, that my dad would kill me if he found out. He would get drunk and take a bat to me, or a knife from the kitchen, or maybe he would just use his hands. That didn't matter. He would kill me and maybe kill my mom too.  
  
I just couldn't get an abortion. I thought about killing myself instead.  
  
#  
  
But when you are sitting naked in the bathtub, the razor in your hands, it isn't as easy as that. I was crying as I sat there; I had arranged it carefully and Mom and Dad weren't home that night and it would have been so easy, so, so easy, just to cut my wrists and let the blood fill the tub, just to end it all, because there wasn't anything I could do that would make things all right. I couldn't get an abortion, not without my parents finding out. And I couldn't get one because, as I sat there, the warm water of the tub around me, I saw that my belly was a little bigger than it had been. There was a baby in me, life in me, new and whole and innocent.  
  
I was the whore, not the baby.  
  
And so I couldn't do it. Even death was denied to me, because if I cut my wrists there, I would be no less a murderer than he would be.  
  
I don't want to be my father.  
  
#  
  
I know my friends suspected. Baggy clothes. Sudden cleavage. I was lucky, though, because I wasn't taking gym that year and I could keep my growing belly hidden. But they suspected.  
  
"What's new, Claire?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
Cecilia watched me closely.  
  
"You sure? You look tired."  
  
"I've been studying a lot."  
  
A nod. "We're going out to the mall after to school. You want to come along?"  
  
"No thanks. I've got some stuff I need to do."  
  
I had to avoid them, you see. I had to avoid them because the more time we spent together the more likely it was that they would find out.  
  
I had to hide. I had to be alone. I ate a lot so my getting fat would seem like I just had an eating disorder.  
  
My dad wouldn't kill me over an eating disorder. 


	3. Part Three

Part Three  
* * *  
  
I think I was lucky too because most of the last months of my pregnancy were in the summer when I wasn't in school anyway. I didn't do much, just stayed home, keeping away from my parents and eating. I took long walks alone, trying to figure out what I was going to do.  
  
Where am I going to have this baby? What am I going to do with it?  
  
No answers. There were never any answers.  
  
I was so afraid.  
  
I was so alone.  
  
#  
  
I think that's why when school started again I paid Virgin Camden to go out with me. I didn't have much money, not really, but I had enough to pay him for a few dates. And I'd heard that he was a fun guy, and because he was proud to be a virgin and all he wouldn't try and get my clothes off, and that was good, because then it would be pretty obvious what I was.  
  
I couldn't tell him, but since I was paying him I knew I could stop him from asking.  
  
I just didn't want to be alone anymore.  
  
So we went out. We had fun. He was good company and I really liked him. It wasn't the virgin thing but maybe it was the fact that neither of us was quite what our parents expected us to be. We never kissed or touched, and that was fine. I paid him everything I had but at least I felt good for a change.  
  
"This was fun," he said at the end of our last date. "I had a good time."  
  
"You mean it?" I asked.  
  
He smiled. He has a good smile; it's a bit subtle, just a bit cocky, but most of all it's warm.  
  
"Yeah. I had a good time, Claire. Thanks."  
  
I guess if I hadn't been afraid he would notice my belly I would have kissed him.  
  
#  
  
I heard from Cecilia a week or two later that Simon's parents had found out about his escort service and had shut it down hard. And she told me that she had gone to his house and had told him about me.  
  
She knew.  
  
They all knew.  
  
I walked the halls of school and people looked at me, grew silent as I came near. No friends, not anymore. I was one of those girls.  
  
Claire. Pregnant. I knew what they were saying.  
  
Are you going to blame Simon? You could blame him, you know. Isn't that why you paid him to go out with you, so you could blame him? His family has all those values they always talk about; you could make a scandal and blame him and then they would have to pay for your baby.  
  
That's what you're going to do, isn't it?  
  
That's what he thought, when he came to me.  
  
#  
  
I don't remember exactly what we said. I know he was afraid. I know I was afraid.  
  
"We have to talk, Claire."  
  
I tried to walk away. "Leave me alone."  
  
"Claire, you know what they're saying about you, about us."  
  
"It's not true. I'm not pregnant. They're just rumors."  
  
"Everyone says -- They're saying I did it."  
  
"Do the math, Simon. I dated you two weeks ago."  
  
He looked around nervously. "After all I've done, you think they'll let me off if they think I did it? You think my parents will believe me? I'm on the edge already. I can't afford this."  
  
"You didn't do anything, all right? Now leave me alone."  
  
#  
  
He didn't. I think any other boy would have. It would have been easy for him to just walk away. But he didn't. He wouldn't let me go.  
  
"Are you pregnant, Claire? You are, aren't you?"  
  
I thought of my father.  
  
Welfare whore.  
  
A bottle of something strong in his hand, a glass in the other. Bruises on my mother's face.  
  
"No!" I cried softly. I wanted to run, had to run.  
  
"Claire, does anyone know?"  
  
"No! My dad will kill me, Simon!"  
  
"Claire --"  
  
"I mean it! He'll kill me! And my mom ...."  
  
I hurried away.  
  
#  
  
It started a few days later. 


	4. Part Four

Part Four  
* * *  
  
Slowly at first, with a wet mess running down the insides of my thighs. My mom and dad were out of the house again, but I knew they would be back soon.  
  
I had to act fast, had to get out of there.  
  
It wasn't too bad for a few hours. I could still move.  
  
Where was I going to go?  
  
Out. Get out before they come back, or you are dead.  
  
Welfare whore.  
  
Out.  
  
I scribbled a note, left it on the kitchen counter.  
  
"Some friends came by. I'm going out. Be back later. Love, Claire."  
  
Cramps. Bad cramps. I caught a local bus.  
  
Should I tell the driver? Should I ask him to call an ambulance?  
  
I don't know. Oh, God ....  
  
Six stops later I got off near a convenience store.  
  
I can't do this. I can't.  
  
#  
  
I had grabbed a blanket and some towels as I left home, had stuffed them into a bag, had them with me, held close. I still don't know how I had thought to do this. The contractions were coming quickly now and as the bus moved away I wondered if the driver would call someone about me, if he had noticed.  
  
It was dark on the quiet street.  
  
My belly rippled with pain. I had to stop, had to move. It hurt badly.  
  
I didn't want to be alone.  
  
Have you heard? Simon Camden has a dating service.  
  
Virgin Camden?  
  
Yeah.  
  
Pain again. Somehow I knew it wouldn't be long. I kept thinking of all the horror stories I'd heard about breech babies, about mothers dying in labor.  
  
I don't want to die, God. Please don't let me die.  
  
There was a phone booth, up ahead. I got to it.  
  
I punched numbers.  
  
Simon Camden has a dating service.  
  
His voice.  
  
My voice.  
  
Please help me, Simon. Please help me.  
  
I'm coming, he said.  
  
And he did. 


	5. Part Five

Part Five  
* * *  
  
It's hard for me to remember the next few hours, but I remember he was there. And there was pain, and a tremendous weight was moving downward in me, and through me, and out of me. Somehow we did it.  
  
He was there for this. He was the one who cleaned up the mewing, crying thing that was my daughter, who wrapped her in the blanket I had brought, who held it. I held it too, as I lay there.  
  
A baby. A beautiful, perfect baby.  
  
I looked up at him.  
  
"I checked," he said softly. "All you have to do is take it to the hospital and leave it with them. No questions."  
  
I began to weep. There, beside me, was my baby.  
  
Oh, I love you. I love you so much.  
  
"I can't," I said.  
  
Simon regarded me. His eyes were wet with tears.  
  
"You'll keep her?" he asked.  
  
A bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. Bruises on my mother's face.  
  
Welfare whore.  
  
I sobbed. Simon, so close, went blurry through my tears. For an instant, a perfect instant, I imagined him, and I, and my baby, together. For that instant I saw us, a family, a mother and a father for my baby, loving it, caring for it, watching it grow. A nice house and a nice neighborhood and no bottles and no bruises.  
  
My daughter made a sound, squirmed a bit in my arms.  
  
You deserve this, I thought. You deserve to have parents who love you, who can care for you. You deserve a life free of screaming and anger and drinking and hate and bruises.  
  
I love you.  
  
But I cannot give this life to you.  
  
The words hurt as they emerged.  
  
"I can't."  
  
I blinked back the tears, there in the dark, a nearby streetlamp our only light. And I saw that Simon was crying as I did, that there was the pain of this in him too. For a long time we wept, and I held my baby, close, because I knew it would be the last time.  
  
I loved her too much to be selfish.  
  
#  
  
In time, the tears stopped coming. I felt a little better now, felt that I could stand. Simon watched me closely, and then he said the words that I could not.  
  
"I'll take her to the hospital, if you want." 


	6. Part Six

Part Six  
* * *  
  
We pass sometimes, in the hall of our school. He is still Virgin Camden, and I am still Claire, and if people suspect that I had a child they say nothing to me about it. I suppose they will always wonder.  
  
We have a secret, Simon and I. And we have kept our secret. Somewhere, I pray in the home of people who love her as much as I do, my daughter has begun her life. And here, in little Glenoak, our lives, his and mine, go on. His large family still has their antics, but I think he sees them differently than he used to, sees what is important and what is not, and I think the antics affect him less than they used to. And I know that in a few years I will leave my parents and that I will not return. I work hard at a job, part time, and I save my money, and I study when I am not working so that someday I can get away from the bottles and the bruises and my father's hatred of what I am.  
  
We pass, sometimes, in the hall. Each time, Virgin Camden smiles at me, with that subtle, kind, wry smile that is so uniquely his. He is an extraordinary boy, Simon is. He was there for me when I needed someone. He did what had to be done despite the pain it brought him.  
  
The others, his family, their boarders, Cecilia, may not know this. They may not know who he really is.  
  
But I do.  
  
THE END 


End file.
